It’s all about the words. It always was.
Only I didn’t know it at the time.

I wandered around for most of my life with a pen and a piece or two of paper. A battered journal accompanied me across Ireland. I wrote my way through the Soviet Union. I always turn to writing in the night, those small hours between midnight and dawn that seem the darkest. Before I was aware of my complex PTSD I used writing as a way to manage my demons. The slender thread of ink across a page provided a lifeline more than once.

Blogging @ ThinkingTooLoud

Blogging @ The Thinking Read


Unhomed (querying)
Refugee (editing)
Conscript (working-title, 1st draft)
Envoy (working-title, 1st draft)